


This Oath and Covenant

by i_claudia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Non Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-28
Updated: 2009-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:39:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins before the great purges, begins almost before Uther fights his way to the crown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Oath and Covenant

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself except the following: GAIUS I AM SORRY. GAIUS I LOVE YOU. DON’T HOLD THIS AGAINST ME.
> 
> This all began, really, with the [comment fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/475105) I wrote for amaberis, which was supposed to be a fatherly Gaius fic but gave off weirdish creeper vibes until I edited it severely, and everything just went crazy from there, especially after eosrose posted (eons ago) [here](http://community.livejournal.com/merlinxarthur/1050224.html) asking for molester!Gaius using a drug to make his chosen victim pliant and forgetful, and the fallout after he is found out, and rane_ab suggested there he might have a “fascination with powerful but innocent minds”. 
> 
> Also I have to apologize to doctors and medical personnel everywhere for mangling the Hippocratic Oath in my title, which I respect and admire but which apparently makes no difference to my writer hindbrain.
> 
> Originally posted at the kinkmeme [here](http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/1108.html?thread=2274388). (28 September 2009)

It begins before the great purges, begins almost before Uther fights his way to the crown. The first time is very nearly an accident, really: Gaius has been caring for injured soldiers somewhere behind the front lines of the battle, is alone with his patients in the tent. He sets up a seat next to the victim he worries most about losing, a young man (too young for war, Gaius thinks sadly,) whose legs have been entirely burned away. They have given him a sleeping draught for the pain, pulled a sheet up to cover the ruin of his lower body, and left his body to struggle its way to either health or the welcome oblivion of death; their resources are already stretched too thin to waste on one mangled foot soldier.

Gaius sits there for hours, watching the shadows play against the heavy cloth of the tent and listening to the young man’s shallow breathing, studying the contours of his face, the way his muscled arms shifted restlessly on top of the sheet.

The soldier is so young, had been so carefree in the effortlessness of youth. With the sheet pulled up, he can imagine that the man is still whole and virile, still might run and fight and laugh, glowing and beautiful in the sun. He can almost believe this soldier innocent, his mind still free from the horrors of war.

Gaius has never been powerful, even in his prime, has never been dominant or even particularly handsome, and he finds himself _wanting_ , needing just a little bit of this dying soldier’s perfection.

He does not allow himself to touch that day, or the next. He watches the young man die, all his strength worth nothing in the end, watches others as they struggle and live and die, and each day the want grows just a little larger, a little more demanding, until he can hardly breathe at night for the ache of it in his chest.

The want does not end with the war, does not end when Uther is finally crowned king, and as his friend passes down a code for Camelot, so Gaius drafts a code for himself. He is uninterested in boys, still all knobby elbows and scraped knees, helpless in the thrall of childhood – they have no command over their bodies, no surety or grace about them. Likewise he finds himself dissatisfied with the young men who come to him for care; unlike the soldier in the tent they are wasted invalids with no power left to be admired.

With the formation of his code – _to offer comfort, to keep secrets safe and never reveal them, to do no harm_ – Gaius finds new life, a new joy in being. Camelot is a bright new city full of fresh, beautiful young men; and it is easy, so easy at first to offer reading lessons to the stable boys, teach them how to write their name just to bask in their delight, their heartfelt assurances of thanks. It is easier still to offer them a cool drink after all that work, laughably simple to slip the tasteless powder into the cider and watch hungrily as they slowly droop into peaceful acceptance.

They keep him content for years; he explores them with his eyes, the tips of his fingers and the palms of his hands. He watches in marvel as they swell and harden beneath his touch; his breath catches in triumph when they blink sleepy eyes and loll their heads back, chests rising and falling with their groans as he takes their bodies over.

Slowly, though, so slowly, he grows discontent in this routine, unhappy without a challenge. The stable hands and kitchen boys, the pages and untold numbers of apprentices... they are cocky, sure in strength and their exquisite beauty, but that is not enough for Gaius. He desires power, finds himself straying toward different parts of the castle now, watches the sons of the noblemen from afar because he cannot have them, cannot hope to touch them. The frustration of it all wells up hot and angry inside him, clouds his thoughts; the agitation of denial a vise around his throat.

The solution, when it comes to him, nearly makes him weep in its perfection. The knights have always been cared for by their squires – untrained, unlearned buffoons – and it is the work of an afternoon to make Uther see the danger to his kingdom inherent in that system, to make him agree that the court physician should have full charge of the knights’ health. If Uther’s eyes are shadowed with things acknowledged and charitably ignored, that is none of Gaius’s concern. He and Uther need each other; their relationship was founded on this unbreakable, unchangeable need. He knows Uther will never move to stop him, knows he will never risk his own reputation by threatening Gaius’s.

“Gaius,” Uther says before Gaius can leave the throne room. “You must promise me something first.”

Gaius waits. He knows better now than to promise anything before he hears it.

Uther leans forward to speak, his voice full of iron assurance. “Arthur is not to be touched.” He pauses, lets the order sink in. “Do we have an understanding?”

The unfairness of it all is a blow, a punch he feels at his core. Arthur is just growing into his power, the gangly boy left behind as the man emerges, stronger and more breathtaking than any Gaius has seen before, but Uther is the king, Uther’s word is law; Gaius bows his head in consent, mourning and moving on. 

And the knights are enough for now, better than Gaius had ever dreamed. He is fascinated by the way their muscles move beneath their skin; he worships at the altar of their sweat and scars. To drink from his cup makes them forget everything but the sweet taste of being truly cared for, and they return to him again and again for the easing of aches and the setting of bones, for the delicious relief that comes with healing.

Because Gaius is healing them, he is sure of it; he learns their names, their stories, their sorrows. He offers them a fatherly shoulder, a comforting hand, and they grow to love him, defend him against the narrow sharpness of the world and let him into their open hearts. Some of them fight him, fight against the warm darkness of oblivion, but he gentles them, caresses them into serene acceptance, even eagerness. In the end they all accept him, desire him, and he takes, drinks his fill of their power and their bodies until he thinks he might fall apart from the ecstasy of it all.

Being denied Arthur, the true jewel of Albion, is a hurt which grows more bitter over time, but he contents himself with looking, snatching warm touches at Arthur’s sickbed, thrilling with the forbidden pleasure of it, knowing that this is the one thing Uther will execute him for without a second thought. Arthur is life, embodies vitality and strength, and Gaius watches him as he grows with hungry eyes, sure that no better man exists.

Then Merlin arrives, and Gaius’s world is turned on its ear, shaken until he barely recognizes it.

Merlin is comely enough, with his supple lips and clear eyes, the inner strength anchored in his very bones, but it is more than that which sends Gaius reeling. He can taste the power rolling off Merlin, barely contained and intoxicating in its rawness. Suddenly Arthur is forgotten, second-best; now Merlin is the center of Gaius’s world, the point around which his life revolves. If the knights were ambrosia fit for the gods, then Merlin is a god himself, unmatched in his perfection.

Better still, Merlin loves him unreservedly, trusts him as he trusts no other living man; Merlin is as loyal to him as he would be to a father, and Gaius spends half his days dizzy from that heady knowledge. He spends weeks, months, just watching Merlin until he can stand it no longer, begins unwrapping him with the slow devotion he deserves.

Merlin is pliant, quietly appreciative after Gaius laces his soup with powder, and Gaius feels his own heart tear at itself with the fierceness of his love. He is invincible, untouchable with this beautiful boy trembling under him, vulnerable and moaning softly as Gaius brings him tenderly to bliss.

All too soon, though, the delirium dream Gaius has lost himself to begins to show cracks, to fall apart around him. At first he enjoys watching Merlin and Arthur bicker and worry at each other – the thought of them together is almost agonizing in its breathtaking glory – but soon he notices that Merlin has drifted from grudging, exasperated respect to something else, something deeper and infinitely worrying. He has seen it before, watched it in countless other minds and bodies, but never before had he been so attached, so invested in keeping someone so exclusively to himself.

It is a visceral pain now to look at Merlin, to see him watching someone else with a love that edges closer every day to lust, and Gaius acts in desperation, using more and more of the powder to keep Merlin with him, enthralled and open to him alone. It begins to show in Merlin’s relationship with Arthur as the boy forgets more and more duties, is absent for longer periods of time with no explanation; Gaius begins to hope that this small cruelty will be enough.

*

It is not enough, not nearly enough. Gaius is returning from delivering an infusion and halts when he passes Arthur’s chambers and hears a muffled noise, listens hard for what he dreads. He is intimately familiar with the latch and the creaks of the prince’s door, and he lets himself silently inside.

They are entwined together in the sheets, prince and warlock, all movement and passionate aggression, their sharp corners smoothed by the burning press of skin against skin. Merlin moves above Arthur, wild as Gaius has never seen him, words spilling from his mouth in a flood of sound until Arthur grips his hips and thrusts – once, twice, over and over – driving himself further into Merlin’s body, and Merlin goes silent, arching back, strangled by the overwhelming weight of his desire.

Gaius leaves as quietly as he entered, already preparing himself for the next step. In a way it is unfair to Merlin, but Merlin, he thinks, angry at last, has been unfair to _him_ , has treated him despicably. Gaius has spent months doting on the boy, welcoming him into his home, healing his brokenness, being the father Merlin had never known, and Merlin has repaid his kindness with nothing but callous contempt.

When Merlin finally returns, Gaius is waiting for him.

“You’re back late,” he remarks quietly, and Merlin jumps, guilty. “Did the prince keep you long?”

“Um,” Merlin says, “yeah. He did, a bit. But I didn’t mind.”

Gaius gets up and puts a comforting hand on Merlin’s forehead, frowning. “Do you feel well, Merlin?” he asks, gripping Merlin by the shoulder and guiding him to sit at the table.

“Yes?” Merlin hazards, and the guilt has spread from his expression to his entire body, hunching his shoulders in shame.

“Hmm,” Gaius says, injecting clear disbelief into his voice. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Lunch,” Merlin tells him. “Look, Gaius, I’m fine, really...”

Gaius makes a show of looking through the vials on the workbench until he finds the tincture he’d prepared that afternoon. “Are you a physician too now?” he asks, with a smile to show Merlin he’s not angry, not anymore, not when Merlin’s come back to him. “This should ward off any infection before it has a chance to set in, and—” he cuts Merlin’s protest off, “if you are indeed fine, it won’t do a thing.”

Merlin sighs, but he dutifully takes the vial and swallows it down. It works quickly; Gaius has not spent years perfecting it in vain.

“Maybe you’re right,” Merlin says, the syllables blurring together around his tongue. “I do feel strange.”

“I thought you might,” Gaius says solicitously, helping him walk to his room. “Don’t worry, it will pass soon enough.”

Merlin barely makes it to his bed before he collapses entirely, boneless, and Gaius has to take his boots and shirt off, carefully lifting each of his limbs with gentle hands. “I’ll take care of you,” he whispers, and Merlin gives him a drowsy smile.

“Thank you,” he says closing his eyes, and Gaius can feel victory again within his reach.

He goes to Arthur the next day, explaining that Merlin has taken ill and needs rest and quiet to recover. Arthur wants to see him, of course, but Gaius firmly, respectfully denies him.

“I don’t want him to take another turn for the worse, your highness,” he explains. Arthur looks stormy at that, but he grudgingly accepts it.

A week goes by and Gaius turns away a steady stream of visitors from his door, all trying to get in, to get a piece of Merlin. Gaius has never played his role so well: the kind court physician, ancient yet still keen of thought, authoritative without demeaning the worries of his patient’s friends.

He knows Arthur is growing suspicious, but Arthur will never dare violate the sanctity of his rooms, not without a direct command from Uther, so he places the worry out of his mind. Merlin is enough to worry about: ensuring he takes his medicine and eats what Gaius spoons into his mouth, helping him walk around the room once a day to keep up his strength.

“You take good care of me,” Merlin tells him dreamily after Gaius has sponged him down, wiped old sweat off of his body, and Gaius knows that Merlin is his once again, broken free of Arthur’s clutches. It makes him confident, warms the places in him that went cold when he took that fateful look in Arthur’s chambers. He goes on his rounds that afternoon at last, carefully locking the door behind him as he leaves with his basket of remedies.

*

He returns to find Arthur in his workshop, idly flipping through one of his anatomy books.

“Sire,” he says, shock stopping him dead just inside the doorway. “What—” He stops when Arthur moves, revealing the body on the ground behind him. For a moment he sees only dark hair and cannot move, cannot breathe, cannot think past the screaming in his ears, but when he forces himself to take another look he realizes that the man on his floor is too old, too broad; he looks nothing like Merlin.

“If you’ve brought that man as a patient, I am afraid you are a little late,” he says, recovering. 

Arthur doesn’t even glance behind him, holding a bottle up to the light and examining it. “I haven’t. He actually recently escaped from prison after being sentenced to execution. Stealing from the king,” he explains. “Pity it didn’t work out for him.”

“Pardon me, my lord,” Gaius says, raising one eyebrow. “But in that case I confess myself confused as to why you’ve brought him to me.”

“I went to see Merlin today,” Arthur remarks, and Gaius tenses.

“Then you will have seen he is gravely ill, sire, and in need of rest, which he will hardly get with everyone in the palace marching through here.”

“He is ill,” Arthur agrees, putting the vial down again and finally looking at Gaius, leaning his hands on the table. “But it’s not a sickness, is it, Gaius?”

Gaius raises his other eyebrow. “I fail to see how he could be ill without a sickness,” he says, a little stiffly, “unless you are insinuating that someone has worked a spell on him.”

“My father taught me how to recognize poisons when I was a boy,” Arthur says, casually changing the subject again. “I was good at it, even when he tested me on odourless, tasteless poisons undetectable to most people. He taught me well.”

Gaius can feel the ground shifting beneath his feet, tipping him off-balance, but he stands fascinated, drawn in by the iron in Arthur’s voice, powerless against the full force of the prince’s stubborn will.

“Imagine my surprise,” Arthur continues, “when I found one of those potions by Merlin’s bedside – the only non-poisonous drug my father showed me how to recognize.”

He takes a step toward Gaius, anger finally cracking through his façade of disinterest. “Why would my father teach me to identify that drug, Gaius? Had you already set your hungry mind on me, already decided I would be your greatest conquest.”

“I’ve no idea—” Gaius begins, but Arthur ignores him, moving forward slowly, a predator on the stalk.

“It must have thrilled you, then, when Merlin arrived, when he moved into your own rooms; how convenient it must have been, especially when you realized that Merlin was more than he seemed.”

There’s a glint in Arthur’s eye, and Gaius realizes with instant, perfect clarity that Arthur _knows_ , knows the secret Gaius has kept safe for Merlin for so long. The betrayal cuts deep, slices through his stupor.

“That powder is an important medical aid,” he says smoothly, once again the unruffled competent physician. “Merlin is in quite a lot of pain; it helps his body to cope with that and so is helping him to heal. Now, sire, if you’ll excuse me, I should go see to him. I’m sure you can see yourself out.”

The almost-open disrespect makes him uneasy, but he has to get Arthur out, has to get back to Merlin, see what Arthur has done to him now...

“He’s not in there,” Arthur says as Gaius pushes by him, heading for the closed door to Merlin’s room.

Gaius doesn’t believe him, though he knows Arthur doesn’t lie – Uther made sure of that – he cannot believe him, will not believe Arthur has taken Merlin away for good, but then he throws open Merlin’s door and looks only at emptiness, the crumpled sheets long gone cold.

“Where have you taken him?” he demands, swinging around to look at Arthur, and he can’t quite keep a note of panic from leaking into his voice.

“Nowhere I’m going to tell you about,” Arthur replies, and his voice has gone utterly cold, past the point of anger into fury. “Merlin is done needing your _medical aid_. How long have you kept up this façade, Gaius? How long have you been holding Merlin prisoner?”

Gaius cannot stop his laughter at that, because Arthur does not know, hasn’t even bothered to imagine. “Never a prisoner,” he says, feeling the hysteria well up within him. “I was a father to Merlin, a confidant, not a jailer; and what can you say, Arthur? You never cared about him, never saw him here every night, wrecked by your cruelty, your thoughtlessness—”

“No.” Arthur cuts him off. “No, you only pretended to care while you drugged him and took him away from those who truly loved him.”

“Loved him!” Gaius bursts out, past caring – Merlin is gone, _gone_ , taken from him by this foolish prince – “You never loved him; you’re just using him, taking what you want until you’re tired of it, and where will he be when you leave him broken? Who will be there to pick up the pieces?”

“At least,” Arthur says, voice sharp enough to kill, “he came to me willingly.”

“He’ll die,” Gaius says desperately. “I have to help him, he won’t live without my help...”

“No.” Arthur cuts him off, quiet and commanding. “No, I think he’ll recover quickly, actually, without you there to drug him.” He draws his sword, and Gaius sees too late the trap which has been laid.

“You can’t kill me,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “Your father would never allow it.”

“My father has been turning a blind eye to you for too long,” Arthur snaps back. “And besides, he’ll be happy to be rid of such an incurable criminal.” He waits a moment for Gaius’s eyes to grow wide before indicating the body still on the floor behind the workbench with a cruel smile. 

“He was trying to steal supplies from you, I’m afraid,” Arthur says sadly, but his eyes are sharp and fixed on Gaius. “You tried to overpower him – quite brave of you, really – but he was too strong for you, and overpowered you easily. Luckily, I was on my way here to see about the health of my manservant but,” he shrugs. “I was too late to do more than avenge you.”

He hits Gaius twice before Gaius can even register he’s moving, sending him sprawling across the floor, gasping for breath. Gaius struggles to stand, to get away, but Arthur is on him, gripping him by the throat.

“What I’d really love to do,” Arthur grits out, “is geld you and shove your balls down your own throat, but unfortunately I can’t make that look like the work of a robber.” He lets Gaius go, throws him back against the stone, and stands up with the point of his sword squarely over Gaius’s heart.

“Sire,” Gaius pleads. “You don’t have to do this; let me go, I’ll leave Camelot, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“You are a liar,” Arthur tells him, unmoved, and buries his sword in Gaius’s chest in one fluid movement.

It should hurt, Gaius knows, but at first he is too shocked to register the pain. He gulps for air, but his lungs won’t fill; each breath gurgles horribly in the dark water swirling around him. “Merlin will never forgive you,” he manages, trying to keep his face above the eddying currents.

“On the contrary,” Arthur says, crouching down and displaying a crystal vial Gaius has never seen before. “I think that once he’s recovered his memories, you are going to be the unforgiven one.”

_No_ , Gaius tries to say, _you’re wrong_ , but Arthur is going out of focus, lost as the water closes over Gaius’s head. He gives in to it serenely; secure in the knowledge whatever lies Arthur tells Merlin, Merlin has only to think a little bit about all Gaius did for him to see who was truly right, in the end.

Gaius smiles, and lets go. He has only to wait until Merlin comes for him again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [vita brevis, ars longa (the aphorisms remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/723340) by [moiraes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moiraes/pseuds/moiraes)




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